


The Sea and the Blade

by The_Arkadian



Category: Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: AU, M/M, Merman Mercutio, merman au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:40:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The orphaned nephew of Lord Capulet loses his ship to a mutiny off the Cape of Good Hope and is rescued by a red-haired merman. Thus begins a strange and unforseen relationship between Tybalt Capulet and Mercutio, nephew of the Prince of the Sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercutioLives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/gifts).



Some said that Tybalt Capulet had been wedded to the sea from the moment he first opened his eyes, for they were the exact shade of the waves that idly rolled off the coast of Italy around Venice, the city of his mother's birth. He was born with a caul, and the midwife nodded sagely for that was a very good sign indeed for a young man who would one day surely command a ship of his own; for the Capulets were wealthy and owned many fine ships.

He could swim before he could walk, for it was hard to keep him out of the water; many said he must be kindred spirit to the seals, so gracefully did he move through the water – and indeed with his fine black hair he resembled one when his head rose above the waves, sleek and wet with his eyes merry with laughter. As he grew into a handsome young man with alluring eyes and an easy smile, the girls of Venice would tease each other that they must beware of the only son of Vittorio and Antonia Capulet, for surely he must have the blood of the sea people in his veins and they must beware of his voice or they would be doomed like those sailors who followed the song of the siren. 

And Tybalt knew of their stories and would laugh.

His laughter died the day his father was felled by the blade of some Montague in a quarrel in the market one day. None could say afterwards how the quarrel began but all knew how it ended; with the Montague fled and Vittorio Capulet dead in a pool of his own blood, the Montague's blade in his heart.

They laid Antonia Capulet in the tomb next to her husband only a week after his death. Some said she died of a broken heart, and perhaps that was true.

Tybalt Capulet entered the house of his Uncle in Verona that same day, barely two days before his fourteenth birthday, and some said that was the day the laughter truly died in his eyes. 

He became quiet and withdrawn, and his uncle grew first concerned, then annoyed, and then finally disgusted by the boy's silence. Though he was a diligent pupil and worked well under his new tutors, excelling at the art of the sword which his uncle insisted that as a man now he must master, he gave nothing of himself away and was a silent enigma, a black-clad ghost. The servants gossiped behind their hands about the strange young man from Venice with eyes like the cold winter sea who spoke rarely and then only in tones of bitterness, who turned away mirth with pointed words and whose humour was sharper than the blade he bore.

It was only to his uncle's sole child, his daughter Juliette, that he showed anything of his true self. The laughing child had hair of bright gold, a contrast to the dark-haired Capulet boy; where she was merriment and innocence and love, he was melancholy, cynical and bitter. They were light and dark – yet in her presence Tybalt felt a little more himself. She showed him gentle patience and a loving willingness to be silent until finally he began to let her in and open up to her, show her the wounded heart inside the shell of stone he had wrought. Though the laughter never returned entirely to his eyes, at least for those few hours they were together here and there they lost a little of their melancholy.

But Tybalt's uncle found the boy's presence irritating, and when he turned 16 the boy was sent to sea. He began as a lowly midshipman on one of his uncle's smaller trading vessels. By 18 he was first mate, and by 20 he was captain of his own ship. But he never forgot Juliette in all his months at sea, and he never failed to bring her gifts when he returned home again. Dolls and intricate mechanical toys from overseas at first and then, as she grew from childhood into a beautiful young woman, fine silks and perfumes from the orient and Arabia, exotic spices and jewellery.

It was late August when his ship, the _Painted Lady_ , rounded the _Cabo das Tormentas_ on a sultry day. The breeze stirring Tybalt's raven-black hair whispered promises of what was to come.

Lifting his head, he turned to face the wind, letting it play over his skin as he listened to its hushed promise. It spoke of warmth on the sea, rich moist air, and a growing storm that even now was being birthed like Venus herself from the spray and foam of an unquiet ocean, miles from land and the eye of any mortal.

He opened his eyes, dropping his gaze back to the ship as he leaned against the forecastle rail, glancing over her lines; noting the way the wind snapped in the sails and the ship obeyed, leaping readily onwards over the white-capped waves. The wind was coming in fits and starts, no longer a steady constant but instead an unpredictable thing. He knew from experience it would drop off altogether before the storm hit.

Tybalt rested a hand upon the sun-warmed painted wood of the forecastle rail and listened to the creaks and sounds of the ship all around him. The _Painted Lady_ was very much a living thing; she lived and breathed with the twenty crew she carried within her wooden embrace, but her heartbeat was the sea itself and for two years now Tybalt had been her Captain. She was as much a part of him as he was of her. It was whispered that no woman could ever claim the heart of Tybalt Capulet so long as the _Painted Lady_ sailed, but only Tybalt himself knew the truth. He was devoted to two loves only: the sea, and the Lady Juliette. The one was a constant, fickle mistress, and the other forever beyond his reach however; he kept both within his heart and told no-one.

He strode aft, taking the steps to the main deck two at a time. The men continued about their work, though one or two paused to look up as their Captain passed. He ignored them all but took the steps to the quarterdeck at a run.

The first mate glanced at his Captain with a raised eyebrow, pausing in the act of examining a length of frayed rope with one of the crew .

“Storm's coming,” explained Tybalt tersely. 

“Bad?” asked the first mate. He knew better than to doubt his Captain's word; the taciturn Capulet had long ago proven to have an almost uncanny knack of predicting the weather, and if the Captain said there would be a storm then it was a foolish man who heeded him not. Some amongst the crew whispered the blood of the sea people must run in his veins, so eerily accurate was his weather sense. Surely that must explain the coldness of his mood, for a warm-blooded man must of a certainty smile _some_ times. But sailors were on the whole a superstitious lot and if Tybalt had heard them, he paid them no heed.

Tybalt knew he was not beloved by his crew; he was too cold, aloof, kept himself apart. He had no friends amongst his officers, but then a captain was not expected to fraternise unduly with his men. He had their respect, which was enough. And though the men may mutter darkly sometimes about his dour demeanour and sharp tongue, none could fault him for fairness, least of all the first mate as he awaited his Captain's answer.

“Bad enough,” replied the Captain. 

“No chance of outrunning it I dare say,” replied the first mate. Tybalt shook his head, and the first mate grunted. “No decent landfall anywhere along the coast here either,” he added dourly as he handed the length of frayed rope back to the crewman. “Replace it with a fresh length from stores then check the rest of that section of the shrouds; splice any that look bad.” The crewman nodded, taking back the length of rope as the first mate turned back to Tybalt.

“We'll have to run before it,” agreed Tybalt. “It had best not find us unprepared. What was the problem with the shrouds? Which ones?”

“The lower foremast shrouds, sir,” replied the first mate gruffly. “A stay gave way as the watch was changing; the man was unharmed, but the whole lot needs checking over for any further rotten stays, particularly if this blow’s a bad ‘un.”

“It will be,” replied Tybalt uneasily. “Tell the crew to make ready and rig lines,” he added as he headed towards the quarterdeck stairs. “I'll not lose a single man to the sea if I can help it. And get those shrouds checked over - all of them.” As he ascended the stairs to the quarterdeck, he heard the first mate behind him starting to bellow orders to the crew. The ship's movement changed as the crew began to reef in the topgallants and staysails; she didn't pitch and roll quite as far, and recovered more easily as she moved through the growing swells.

The crew were busy up on deck; stowing away anything that could be cleared from the deck and lashing down anything that couldn't. Those water barrels that could not fit in the ship's stores were stored on deck; they were lashed together - a full barrel breaking loose in the middle of the storm could easily kill one or more men, and with a crew of only twenty Tybalt didn't want to lose a single one. The _Painted Lady_ could be handled with a crew half that size at a pinch, but Tybalt preferred not to take the risk.

He tilted his face up towards the sun; clouds were gathering on the distant horizon, streaming steadily towards the small brig as she wended her way on across a sea that had turned flat and sluggish, the waves taking on a strange almost oily sheen in the eery grey-yellow light as the storm built behind them, reaching out long dark tendrils as the clouds billowed up into an angry anvil that boded ill. The warmth upon his face was feeding into that storm as it grew, lifting great masses of moist air up through the clouds as they churned and roiled, the energy building inexorably as the clouds boiled up in to a dark, uneasy mass, charcoal-grey and threatening. A wave of almost unnatural calm settled over the ocean, and as Tybalt opened his eyes the pennant upon the mast fell limp and silent, the wind dying away completely.

He glanced down at the first mate, who shifted uneasily at the sudden calm. 

“Every man on a line. _Now._ ”

“Every man on a line! _Now_ , you laggardly buggers!” echoed the first mate even as he clipped himself on to the line by the wheel; the helmsman was already clipped fast to the great iron hoop set into the wheelpost. Tybalt clipped himself onto a nearby line even as the first great gust of wind hit the ship. The deck gave a lurch beneath his feet and the wind belled out the mains'ls taut with a snap of canvas. 

He gave the order to start reefing in the mains'ls, and men scrambled up the yardarms and set to work with a will, shortening the sails against the storm winds. The ship heeled hard over to port under the onslaught of the gale, slowly pulling herself upright again as the helmsman spun the wheel to turn the ship into the wind. The storm jibs were run up as they pulled the mains'ls flat, Hollick shouting orders as he ran forward to help haul on the fore mains'l halyard, Tybalt only a step behind. He would never expect a man to do a job he wouldn't do himself, and as the storm overtook the slender vessel he worked as hard as any other man aboard that ship to bring the _Painted Lady_ safely through the storm.

It was back-breaking work; the sails fought them as they pulled them in tight, luffing them in as the helmsman fought to keep them headed into the wind. They were all soon drenched to the skin and blinded by the salt spray, and more than once Tybalt was grateful for the jack lines. He lost count of the number of times a sudden wave across the weather deck swept him off his feet, and he had no doubt that if not for the stout leather belt and clip holding him to the ropes then he would have been swept overboard. As it was, he was certain he would be bruised all over come the morrow, and his arms and back were aching with the strain of hauling on wet ropes and struggling with the sails.

The helmsman suddenly shouted with alarm as he wrestled with the wheel; Tybalt unclipped his line without thinking and sprinted across the heaving deck for the quarterdeck stairs, snapping his clip onto the stair line. The ship gave a lurch then suddenly heeled hard over to starboard, and he was suddenly drenched in icy cold water as the rail dipped into the sea, his feet swept off the slick wooden stairs. He was dragged under the water; he held his breath as the sea washed over his face and then suddenly all the loud creaks and groans, shouts of crew and wailing of the wind were curiously muted, the world turned a murky grey-green swirled with white foam. It was oddly peaceful, even as the chill bit through his clothes, paralysing his limbs.

Then the ship lurched back upright again, dragging him back up into the salt-tanged air, Tybalt desperately gasping for breath even as he was overcome with the wild, hysterical urge to laugh. He fought it down as he flung himself across the slick quarterdeck to help the helmsman and first mate wrest the wheel back under control. The ship was trying to turn leeward downwind, and it took the combined effort of all three men to pull her back into the wind again before the storm could catch and spin her round. They began to tack slowly into the wind, the ship hauling herself ponderous and slow through the oncoming waves. At each tack, it seemed the ship would stall, and there were a few tense moments when Tybalt wondered if the ship would back around or keel over again under the shrieking winds of the gale; but each time, the _Painted Lady_ would turn steadily as the storm jib caught the wind and belled out once more, pulling her on into the next turn.

Time seemed to cease to have all meaning. Tybalt's awareness was narrowed down to focus on the ache across his shoulders and down his back as he threw his weight against the helm, the rain and sea spray driving into his face and blinding him. He was deafened to all but the unceasing scream of the wind, the yells and cries of the crew as they fought to bring the ship under control almost unheard as the wind snatched the words from numb lips even as they were given voice.

Yet even as the hours rolled on in backbreaking toil, every man chilled by freezing spray, the _Painted Lady_ ploughed on through waves that towered over the sloop's two masts, the water like walls of black glass all around the fragile wooden boat that yet sailed on determined through all that the storm could throw at her. And finally Tybalt realised that the wind shrieking in his ears was a little quieter, the waves a little lower, the wheel responding more easily as they kept their course. He could feel through the movement of the wet deck beneath his feet that the worst of the storm was over; and though the rain still lashed down upon them all, it was the aftermath. They had made it through.

Tybalt stayed on deck until the early hours, watching over his ship and crew as they mended lines and set the _Painted Lady_ to rights. The lower port rigging on the foremast was in shreds, several stays had split or frayed under the onslaught of wind, rain and salt spray, and the main topgallant and main top staysails were both flapping loosely in the stiff sea breeze. The main staysail had torn – sailors were aloft over his head even now, mending the tear – and the sprit sail had been torn away completely, its lines trailing in the water below the figurehead, as had the flying jib. Various other lines had snapped and even now were being repaired and replaced, as was a length of the weather deck rail on the starboard side where three water barrels had gone over the side. Despite having rigged lines, they'd still lost seven men over the side – two when the barrels went. They'd have to restock on fresh water at next landfall, but they had enough to see them safely there. All things considered, the damage was, in the main, cosmetic and Tybalt knew they had much to be grateful for. Still, it was not until the early glimmer of dawn could be seen on the horizon that he finally turned to go below to his cabin.

He turned to find the first mate and several sailors blocking his way.

“What's the meaning of this?” He stared at the men, his face like stone.

“The men feel there was nothing natural about that storm. They've been unhappy about how this ship has been run for some time now. There's some as say we shouldn't have made this trip so late in the season, and some as say maybe you're a devil of the sea yourself and you seek only to bring us to your people so they can sing us to our deaths.”

Tybalt blinked. “And some would say you've been drinking too much and should guard your tongue,” he growled. “Is this a mutiny?”

“This is us saying we won't be prey to either your ambition or the sea. What I believe is neither here nor there, but the men will see you captain no more.”

“And I suppose you fancy yourself as captain instead?” Tybalt sneered. “And what do you think is the penalty for mutineers? Not a single one of you will ever dare set foot in Venice again upon fear of death.” He stared at the men's faces. “What of your wives, your children?”

“We'll find other wives and sire many more children as free men,” replied the first mate, and the others nodded. He turned to the crew. “Lower the boat! The _Captain_ is departing,” he added mockingly to jeers and laughter as they lowered the boat. “Send him over, lads,” ordered the first mate.

They tried to lay hands on him, and Tybalt lashed out, fighting desperately, but there were too many of them. He reached for his sword then staggered as something large and heavy smashed into his left temple, He fell heavily to the deck, stunned and half-conscious, barely able to glance up at the first mate who stood over him, a boat hook in his hand; Tybalt could feel blood running hot and wet down the side of his face.

“Strip him of coat and sword, and throw him over the side,” ordered the first mate. “and give me the sword – it's too fine for the likes of you louts.”

“No,” croaked Tybalt, but they paid him no heed as they stripped him down to his pants and linen shirt.

The ship and the sky tilted alarmingly as they hoisted him up, and then he was falling. He hit the boat hard athwart the gunwale, wood splintering as it broke asunder beneath him and then the waters closed over his head.

He reached desperately for the surface and hauled himself up onto the broken remains of the boat, only able to watch through glazed eyes as the ship sailed on without him. He clung to the wood, dizzy and sick and alone as the sun slowly rose.

He was drifting slowly in and out of consciousness when he felt ice-cold hands touch his leg. They trailed slowly higher, questing icily beneath his shirt. Dazed, he looked down and stared at the creature rising out of the water to stare at him. Surely he was dreaming; a strange, beautiful young man with wild red hair was floating there beside him in the water, regarding him with the most impossibly blue eyes. 

Tybalt stared at him, blinking blood out of his eyes; the stranger trilled a soft whistle that sounded almost questioning as he lifted ghostly pale hands to Tybalt's face, gently tracing a white finger over the cut that yet bled. Then the stranger smiled, revealing rows of sharp teeth as he cradled Tybalt's face in his impossibly-cold hands before drawing him down into the waves.

Tybalt didn't struggle at first; everything had the strange, hazy, unreal feeling of a dream, but as the red-haired stranger drew him deeper in the water and his lungs began to burn for lack of air he began to panic. The salt water stung his eyes and he had to breathe; he began to thrash wildly, trying to pull away from this strange creature that seemed intent upon dragging him down to the depths.

The creature rose and wrapped its long arms around him, pinning his arms to his sides; though slender, it seemed impossibly strong and the more Tybalt writhed and kicked to escape, the tighter it held him until his struggles weakened, lack of oxygen overcoming him until finally he was helpless in the creature's arms. He turned despairing eyes up towards the light and air so close, yet so far out of reach. As consciousness dimmed, he unthinkingly tried to inhale, and suddenly his lungs burned with salt water and all went dark, his last sight that of a pair of worried blue eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The Prince of the Sea had no children. Children were a rare treasure amongst the Sea People, for they were a long-lived race but few were blessed with offspring. They were also a secretive people, for as the land-dwellers extended their reach from the places above the water even to the water itself with their wooden vessels, so did they seek to extend their reach to the very ocean depths with their nets; and if sometimes they snared some unwary Child of Poseidon, they would slay them. And the Sea People would mourn, for with fewer children being born they were becoming few in number and retreated to the deeper waters where the land-dwellers' nets as yet did not reach.

They had been at war with the land-dwellers from the first time the blood of a merman was spilled (for the land-dwellers hate what they fear, and fear what they do not understand, and the Sea People who sang as the dolphins and whales do and could go where they could not were a people they did not understand and so they killed instead), and their rage and hatred against those who walked on two legs was a terrible and implacable thing. But they soon learned that the flesh of the land-dwellers was sweet and succulent, for the land-dwellers were weak and soft, having long ago forgotten the ways of the hunter as they built machines and enslaved four-footed animals to do their bidding and work. They were weak of mind also, easily ensnared by the sweet songs of the Sea People and enticed into the waves, where the Sea People waited.

If the land-dweller were fortunate and the Sea People merciful, they would allow the land-dweller to drown before they stripped the flesh from his bones with their sharp teeth and razor-like claws. But the Children of Poseidon were rarely merciful, for the land-dwellers were never merciful to them.

And so the sailors learned to fear the sirens' song and avoid the rocks where the beautiful mermaids sang and picked their teeth with the splintered bones of those less fortunate and more careless than they.

The Prince of the Sea had no children, but he had two nephews. Slender as the kelp, strong as the ocean currents, eyes as blue as the skies of midsummer over the equatorial seas and hair as red as blood, they were twins, born within minutes of each other. Their names were Mercutio and Valentine, and the prince loved them as though they were his own for they were the children of his sister and her mate. There was much anger and hatred in the Prince's heart, for the land-dwellers had taken both his sister and her mate seven long years ago. The blood of her mate had run red beneath the blades of the land-dwellers, but the Prince's sister had screamed her agony for four long days and nights before her body was hurled in pieces into the sea from the ship where they had taken her, and sharks devoured her. The Prince wore her teeth about his throat in memory and swore he would do so until the last land-dweller had filled the bellies of her children.

The Sea People had gathered that day in anticipation, for they could feel it in their bones and their blood when a storm was gathering. It sang to them through the depths of the waters, it called to them in the swirling currents and it beckoned to them in the shoals of herring and whitebait and krill as they rose to the surface to dance in the waves as sky and sea appeared to become one.

And the Sea People waited (for they are a patient people, as are many who live long lives), for they knew that with the storm there would often come a ship. And though fish were plentiful in these warm waters, still nothing quite compared to the delicacy of the flesh of the land-dwellers, and the Children of Poseidon were hungry.

Mercutio and Valentine were in the forefront of their people as befitted their rank as the nephews and heirs of the Prince. Theirs would be the honour of the first kill, and as they waited Mercutio and Valentine whistled and trilled to each other jibing jokes as to who would taste the flesh of a land-dweller first.

Mercutio and Valentine were almost as alike as two fish in a shoal, save for their hair; for Mercutio's hair was a wild swirl of red close about his head, short as the tendrils of the sea anemones that grew in the warmer places, but Valentine's hair was as long and straight as the kelp that grew in the forests of the Sargasso. Mercutio was the older by a few minutes, but many said that Valentine should have been first, for he was oft-times the wiser of the two. Where Mercutio was all fire and impulse - moved between rage and laughter, as apt to one as the other – Valentine was peaceful, thoughtful, the calm waters running deep with unseen secrets in their depths. He held the council of his heart close but his love of his brother closer still.

They were devoted to each other and the delight of their uncle's eyes, and their people loved them.

Mercutio was possessed of a wild curiosity, and so it was no surprise that he was the first to swim to touch the hull of the land-dwellers' ship. It tossed and rolled in the storm, for despite being stoutly built it was, in truth, a flimsy thing in the face of the storm which drove it on or the wild, furious sea that sought to draw it down to the depths. 

As Mercutio swam alongside it, the ship suddenly rolled towards him and tilted so far over that the rail upon one side dipped below the water. There was the flash of a pale face, wide green eyes and long black hair that streamed and waved in the water like streams of squid ink, and Mercutio trilled in surprise for he had thought himself the first of his people to reach his ship. The dark-haired one sped through the water as graceful as any seal, one hand holding to a rope that trailed from the ship; and then the ship began to right itself and the dark-haired one rose with it.

Mercutio reached to grab his fellow merman, for surely the land-dwellers would kill him if they caught him and he was too beautiful to die at their hands.

But he was tugged up into the air, and Mercutio could not catch him in time – and perhaps it was as well, for as the dark one was lifted into the air, it was not a long slender grey tail with broad powerful flukes that beat the air but long, slender legs. And Mercutio was chagrined at his error and wondered how it was that there could be a land-dweller as beautiful as a Child of Poseidon and as graceful in the water. He resolved to say nothing of it to his brother, for Valentine would tease him.

The storm was easing, and the ship was slowing in the water. From all around, Mercutio could hear the excited calls of his people as they surrounded the ship. They were closer to the rocks here, and the Sea People were swimming around and in front of the ship. The sun was rising, and they would begin to sing with the dawn. They would dine on land-dweller flesh, and their calls were full of delighted anticipation; it was late in the season and they had not expected to have such good fortune before the winter storms set in. They would feast well this day.

But Mercutio was distracted. As he drifted up through the dark waters in the lee of the ship, a smaller boat suddenly struck the water and nearly hit him. As he darted to one side he heard the coarse ugly voices of the land-dwellers above, and then something came tumbling over the side of the ship. It struck the boat hard, splintering the boat almost into two, and the body of the dark-haired land-dweller sank into the water. As Mercutio drew nearer, curious as to why the land-dwellers would cast aside one of their own. Did they think to propitiate the Children of Poseidon? As he swam closer the dark-haired one reached for the surface, dragging himself up onto one of the broken pieces of the boat as the ship sailed on.

Mercutio knew he should follow the ship, but his curiosity was piqued. He circled the dark-haired one slowly. The strange flapping garment he had worn earlier which Mercutio had mistaken for a tail was gone; his pale flesh was covered by a flimsy thing of something thin and white that drifted in the water like the finest seaweed, and his feet were bare. Mercutio drew closer, fascinated by the creature's long pale legs; and he reached out and touched one. The skin below the strange second skin the creature wore was smooth and not altogether unpleasant to the touch; and emboldened, Mercutio ran his hands father up the legs. The second skin felt strange, slightly rough under his hands but as he slid his hands up beneath the floating whiteness the creature's skin was soft and smooth and warm, so warm. 

Mercutio's head bobbed up out of the water and he stared at the dark-haired creature, who opened eyes the colour of the sea, and Mercutio found himself quite enchanted by them. The creature blinked dazedly, and Mercutio's eyes drifted up to an ugly-looking contusion on the creature's temple just above his left eye. It was bleeding, and blood covered half the creature's face.

Mercutio frowned. The creature seemed in some pain and distress, and despite the fact he was quite obviously a land-dweller, Mercutio couldn't help feeling a little sorry for him. He was all alone, cast away by his people, hurt and afraid.

“Don't be scared,” Mercutio told him gently. “I'm not hungry. I just want to look at you. Does that hurt?”

The creature didn't seem to understand him; at least, he made no effort to answer. Mercutio lifted his hands up to lightly stroke the bruised and bleeding skin. “This. Does it hurt?” He sighed when the creature made no effort to answer. Perhaps he was more gravely injured than at first appeared. “Perhaps I should take you with me,” he pondered. He gave the creature a reassuring smile as he drew him down into the water. He could hear his people starting to sing, and they would be busy with the feast for a while yet. He had his creature to himself.

The creature seemed quite willing to go with him at first, but then a look of distress came over its face and it began to struggle. “Easy, I'm not going to hurt you!” Mercutio said soothingly as he wrapped his arms around his new-found pet, but the creature only struggled the harder, throwing its head back to stare up at the surface. It managed to pull a hand free and reached desperately towards the surface as its mouth opened, and then suddenly its struggles weakened before ceasing entirely.

Mercutio was alarmed, and he lifted his hands to cradle the creature's face; as he did so, his fingers brushed the creature's neck and with a shock, he realised it had no gills. It couldn't breathe!

What a fool he'd been! He'd nearly killed his new pet through ignorance! He struck out for the surface, the flukes of his tail beating powerfully to speed them through the water as they surged towards the surface, the creature limp in Mercutio's arms. As his head broke through the water, he wrapped his arms around the creature's abdomen and squeezed sharply in and back.

The creature coughed, and a great gout of water gushed from its mouth as it sagged unconscious in his arms. He repeated the action, and again it vomited up water, though less this time. On the third try no water came up, but the creature took a great ragged gasp of air as it flopped back against him, its head falling limply back onto his shoulder.

What to do? He couldn't take it back to his home far beneath the surface; it wouldn't survive. He didn't want to just leave it where he'd found it; one of his people might decide to eat it. But he didn't want to eat it himself.

He began to swim through the water, the creature sprawled upon its back supported against his chest, its arms trailing limply through the water. It was quite a pretty creature, he reflected, if only it had had a proper tail instead of those silly legs which were no use in the water.

There was a small island nearby – well, near as the Sea People termed such things, though he supposed it would tak a land-dweller's ship a day or more to reach it. He knew land-dwellers never came there however, for it was too small for more than maybe one or two to live there, and it had none of the four-legged creatures the two-legged ones seemed to like to eat besides fish. It had a pool (though of fresh water, not salt, but perhaps land-dwellers didn't mind that, being strange creatures after all) and trees, and perhaps his pet would be safe there.

He pulled himself and his pet (for such he had already come to think of the creature as), up onto the sands with his strong arms, then gently lowered the dark-haired creature onto the sand.

He brushed the damp hair away from the closed eyes gently with the tip of a claw and called softly to his pet to open his eyes. He had started to fear it had taken some permanent injury when finally its eyes slowly fluttered open.

“Hello,” Mercutio said gently. The creature blinked, its sea-green eyes dazed and unfocused, and then suddenly it gasped in a lungful of air with an odd noise and shoved itself back away from Mercutio. Mercutio frowned and crawled swiftly up the beach after it and pinned it down easily with one clawed hand pressed firmly against its chest. 

It stared up into his face and made a faint sound in the back of its throat that reminded him of a seal pup whimpering for its mother, and he felt sorry for it. It seemed terrified of him for some reason; he tried to gently stroke its face reassuringly, and it flinched away from his claws.

“Ooooh,” he whistled slowly. “You're scared of me, aren't you? It's alright. I won't hurt you. You're mine now, don't you see?”

The creature made an odd noise then a stream of sounds came from its lips.

“Are you trying to talk? Funny Pet! No, like this! Hel _lo_.” He spoke slowly and carefully to the creature, who made a quizzical sound. He sighed. “This is going to take some work, I can see.” He sat up straight. “Wait, I bet you're hungry! Wait here!”

He pulled himself back into the water and dove down. Presently he swum back up to the beach to find his pet had stripped off the white skin and was wringing water out of its long dark hair. He set the fish he'd caught on a large flat rock at the water's edge and whistled to it. His pet lifted its head then got to its feet a little unsteadily before walking over to see what he'd brought.

That was promising – Pet was learning to come when called already. Perhaps it _could_ be trained!

Pet crouched down by the rock and stared at the fish curiously. It made that quizzical sound again.

“Fish,” Mercutio said, then again more slowly, “ _Fi-i-i-sh_.”

The creature frowned then pursed its lips and tried to whistle.

“Nearly! Try again!” Mercutio nodded encouragingly. “ _Fi-i-i-sh_.”

“ _Fe-e-e-e-ss-s_ ,” Pet managed.

“Yes, that's it! That's it! Good Pet, _clever_ Pet!” whooped Mercutio. The creature clapped its hands over its ears with a distressed look and made a pained sound as Mercutio's ear-piercing whistle echoed around the beach.

“Poor Pet, maybe your ears are defective?” said Mercutio quieter. He prodded the fish again. “Fish,” he repeated quietly.

“Feeesss,” echoed the creature, then stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“It's for you,” said Mercutio. “Fo-o-o-r _yoooooou_.” He pushed the fish closer to the creature. It stared at the fish uncomprehendingly. Mercutio sighed. Maybe it didn't understand it was food? He took the fish and tore it into smaller chunks with his claws then took one and held it up. “Food,” he said, then bit into it.

The creature turned a rather ghastly shade of green and shook its head. Mercutio swallowed his mouthful of fish and frowned. Maybe the creature needed to taste the food to recognise it as edible? He pulled himself up on the rock and took a bite-sized piece of fish in its claws and held it up.

“Fish,” he said firmly.

“Feeesss,” echoed the creature slowly. Mercutio nodded encouragingly.

“Food.”

“Fu-u-udth?” the creature tried.

“Good!” exclaimed Mercutio (though quietly this time; after all, he didn't want to hurt Pet's ears which seemed quite sensitive and fragile – no wonder land-dwellers were hypnotised so easily by the Sea people's songs if their ears were so weak) and pushed the morsel of fish at the creature's mouth.

The creature backed away hurriedly, making the distressed noise and shaking its head again. 

Mercutio sighed. Well, he'd tried, at least. Maybe the creature would eat when it was hungry enough?

He glanced at the sky; the morning was wearing on, and his brother and uncle would be beginning to wonder where he was. He had to head back home. He dove back into the water and swam swiftly away, resolving to come back the following day and bring his pet more fish.

He'd never had a pet before – not like this, anyway. This was going to be fun.


	3. Chapter 3

Tybalt stared at the creature as it swam away. He had rarely felt so terrified in his life as in the moment that he awoke to find himself sprawled upon his back with the talons of one of the Sea People mere inches from his eyes. 

He had thought himself surely dead as darkness had overtaken him, drowning in the arms of the merman. His last fleeting thoughts had been that the midwife had been wrong and the caul had not saved him; and that at least the merman was being merciful and letting the sea take his life before devouring him.

As he had stared up into those intense blue eyes he had rapidly revised that thought. 

He had tried to flee, but the creature moved almost as fast on land as it had in the water, dragging itself after him swiftly with its strong arms and easily pinning him. He had sworn to himself that he would show no sign of fear even in the face of death, but as the creature reached those terrible talons towards his face he could not restrain the small whimper that slipped from his lips.

He could not fathom its behaviour. It had him at its mercy; he was unarmed, half-drowned, vulnerable – and yet it had let him live. Indeed, it had done more – it had brought him fish, though when it had tried to feed him with raw morsels he had thought he would have vomited had his stomach not already been empty.

It had whistled and clicked at him, and he had gradually worked out that one particular whistle seemed to mean “fish”; he wasn't sure what the other word was he had attempted to copy – perhaps “food” or “eat”? But surely it could not expect him to eat raw fish! The very thought made his stomach clench queasily.

It had left him on the island. He still had no idea why it had let him live, but he felt a sense of gratitude nonetheless (and more that the creature had not tried to force the raw fish into his mouth for then he _would_ have vomited, empty stomach or no).

After a while, he left the raw fish where it lay on the rock and resolved to explore this strange island where he had been stranded and see what resources there were to be had – including anything that might help him escape.

It didn't take long to explore what little the island had to offer. It took half an hour to cross the island from one end to the other, and perhaps half that to cross it at its narrowest point the other way. There was a steep, slightly conical hill towards one end that was flanked by a few tropical trees and bushes, and perhaps half the isle was sparsely wooded. There was a large pool of sweet water not far from the beach where he drank his fill before continuing exploring.

There seemed to be a few fruit trees on the island plus various palms. He encountered a couple of tall plants laden with curved green fruits of some kind which he had never seen before, and he found a tree quite close to the beach where he had awoken that bore strange yellow-green fruits with prickly rind that were the size of a large grapefruit. He picked one and tried breaking it open, with some difficulty; the flesh inside was green and smelled tart. It exuded a thin white milky fluid that dried swiftly on his fingers, leaving them unpleasantly sticky. He broke off a piece of the flesh; it was hard and woody, and tasted sour and sharp like an uncooked potato when he cautiously tasted it. He threw it aside; whatever the strange fruit was, it was evidently not edible.

None of the fruit on the island was familiar; he was wary of tasting any of it, for fear of eating something harmful. He did gather some of the curved green fruits however.

He found some fallen palm trees to one side of the island and managed to find a couple of coconuts that still seemed good, and brought all the things he'd found back to the beach. He laid out the green fruits and coconuts on a palm leaf beneath a tree, then started to scout around the high tide line for driftwood and anything else that might be useful to build a shelter. He had no idea how long he would be on this island and shelter seemed a sensible idea.

He had no knife or other blade and no rope, but some of the driftwood he found appeared to have come from pieces of wrecked ships; sections of oak planking bleached to a silvery-grey by time and tide that he was able to drag back to the spot near the tree. He found four young palm trees standing near each other in almost a perfect square and used them to rig up a rough frame with driftwood bound in place with strips of palm leaf, then braced the pieces of decking and boat hull in place, bracing branches over the top then piling on palm fronds over the lattice of branches for a roof.

It was a rough yet reasonable shelter, though he wasn't sure how sturdy it would be in the event of a storm. He stared at his work then went to the pool for a long drink.

He had no tools with which to start a fire, unfortunately. He attempted to start a fire by twirling a stick against a piece of driftwood but couldn't seem to build up a high enough amount of friction; though the end felt warm, there was no smoke, much less a flame, and after steadily persisting for a couple of hours he finally gave up, hot, sweaty and exhausted.

He sat beneath the tree and peeled the green fruit, tasting them cautiously. They seemed tart and hard, yet he judged them more edible than the large spiky fruit and he ate the ones he had picked; they seemed to fill his stomach well enough. He tried to break open the coconuts and finally succeeded by dint of hurling them against the rocks. He drank the milk thirstily then scraped the sweet white flesh out with half a scallop shell he had found on the beach.

It was late afternoon and he was tired after his labours; all he had eaten since morning the previous day were the green curved fruits and the coconut flesh. He lay down beneath the tree and fell asleep.

He awoke some time later to his stomach churning uneasily. He sat up and pressed a hand against his abdomen and felt nauseous. Perhaps those green fruits had not been ripe enough? He felt rather ill. He rose to his feet, a coconut shell in his hand, to go drink from the pool and fetch water, but he barely got a few feet away from the beach before he doubled over vomiting. 

He threw up twice more on his way to the pool; by the time he reached the beach once more, his stomach was spasming emptily and he felt most unwell indeed. Setting the shell of water to one side he lay down beneath the tree and bit back a moan. His stomach was empty but now he felt even hungrier than before.

He must have fallen asleep, for when he opened his eyes again the sun was setting and the merman was leaning over him, humming and clicking softly to him. He sat up with difficulty, feeling weak and dizzy, and the merman gestured to the fish it had brought, whistling the word he had come to learn meant fish.

Though he was hungry, the thought of trying to eat raw fish made his stomach lurch uneasily. He shook his head hastily as the merman broke of a piece of the raw flesh and held it out to him, making encouraging sounds. The merman tilted its head on one side, regarding him quizzically, then popped the piece of fish in its mouth and ate it with evident relish.

“I can't eat raw fish,” protested Tybalt as it held another bite-sized morsel out towards him. It whistled a little impatiently, then leaned forward and tried to push the piece of raw fish into his mouth.

He hastily backed away. “No, no! I can't eat that!” he exclaimed, trying to keep himself beyond the reach of those long nails. The merman made several clicking noises and trills; he could have sworn it sounded annoyed. It pointed at the fish, then at his mouth imperiously. Tybalt shook his head. He was not so desperate as to attempt to eat raw fish.

The merman tried twice more then gave a frustrated trill followed by an odd “kekekekek” sound that seemed to be some form of chastisement. It pointed to the fish, then at him, then turned and dragged itself back into the water and disappeared with a flick of its tail.

He thought it had gone, but after a while it reappeared with an octopus which it dragged towards him and pushed towards him. He shrank away in revulsion. “I'm not eating raw octopus!” he cried.

It tried with a succession of other sea creatures and fish, getting more and more frustrated with him each time he rejected its offering until he was afraid it was growing angry with him. But he could not bring himself to taste the raw fish or other creatures it had brought him; the very smells alone turned his stomach.

Finally the merman gave a shrill whistle of annoyance that hurt his ears, then turned and disappeared back into the water. He waited a while, but it did not reappear.

Eventually he gathered up the dead fish and sea creatures and threw them back into the sea before retreating into his shelter. He curled up on a bed of palm leaves and fell asleep.

He felt much weaker the next day, his stomach beginning to cramp uncomfortably from lack of food. He made his way to the pool and drank deeply, then filled two of the coconut shells before returning to the beach; he had to pause a couple of times on the way back as a wave of dizziness overcame him. His head was aching, and he felt lethargic. By the time he got back to the beach, he felt exhausted. He stretched out upon the sand beneath the tree and drifted asleep.

The merman did not return that night, or the following night. By the following day, he no longer had the strength to even crawl the short distance to the pool. The water in the shells was gone. He was drifting in and out of consciousness; had he been capable of thinking coherently, he would have realised he was dying of thirst and starvation. Perhaps it was a mercy then that he could not. He lay sprawled under the tree and waited to die.

He became vaguely aware that someone had their arm around his shoulders and was lifting him up slightly, humming soothingly to him. He opened his eyes with difficulty and had an impression of worried blue eyes.

“You came back,” he croaked, his lips dry and cracked. “Thought... you'd lost interest in me.”

The merman crooned softly to him then made the whistling noise he'd used to attract Tybalt's attention each time he'd visited. Tybalt frowned a little as he tried to focus on the blue eyes.

“Is that... my name?” he asked slowly. He tapped his chest and and tried to copy the sound but his lips were too dry and sore.

The merman lifted the coconut shell full of water to his lips and he drank thirstily. It was gone all too soon, and he let his head drop back to rest against the merman's shoulder. He tapped his chest. 

“Tybalt,” he said weakly. “My name is Tybalt.”

The merman tilted his head on one side and made a quizzical sound. Tybalt smiled weakly. “Ah, why am I even bothering?” he breathed. “You don't understand me.”

The merman trilled a low sound that sounded comforting. It reached down for something beside Tybalt, then pressed something against his lips.

Ah. More raw fish.

He hadn't the strength to resist, and he was so weak and hungry that the smell no longer revolted him any more. He sighed softly then obediently opened his mouth for the morsel of raw fish. 

The merman whistled and cooed encouragingly as he slowly chewed and then managed to swallow the piece of flesh. It wasn't as bad as he had imagined it would taste; or perhaps he was too starved to care. When the merman lifted a second bite to his lips, he accepted it willingly enough.

He had no idea how long he lay there being hand-fed pieces of raw fish by the merman, but his stomach had shrunk and he couldn't manage much more than about a handful of flesh. His stomach felt full, though he still felt hunger pangs; he knew if he tried to eat more he would be sick. When the merman pressed another morsel to his lips he pressed them closed and turned his face away.

The merman seemed unconcerned by his refusal; it shrugged and popped the morsel into its own mouth. As Tybalt glanced up at it, it grinned down at him around a mouthful of fish, and he couldn't quite repress a shudder of horror at the sight of its razor-sharp triangular teeth. _Shark's teeth_ , he found himself thinking, and shivered.

The merman trilled a question, and Tybalt found himself answering. “Your teeth are terrifying. Why didn't you kill me? Why are you feeding me?”

The merman cooed again, and Tybalt sighed, feeling drowsy once more. When the merman lifted another shell of water to his lips, he drank gratefully, then slowly drifted to sleep in the merman's arms, too exhausted to be afraid.


	4. Chapter 4

The Prince frowned. Pet was very weak, but at least it had finally eaten. He leaned over the sleeping creature - at least, he _assumed_ it was sleeping, though one couldn’t tell with the land-dwellers. They didn’t seem to do _anything_ like the Sea People; they didn’t breathe properly, couldn’t swim properly, they couldn’t even talk - just make those funny grunting noises and whimpers. Just like seals really - and just like seal pups, they were remarkably helpless creatures when alone.

The Prince frowned. He had found a lost seal pup once, long ago, after a storm. It had been a weak, mewling thing - it couldn’t feed itself and had finally sickened with no adult seals to look after it. The Prince had watched as it grew thinner and its cries fainter until finally it had laid its head down and died. As the Prince trailed his clawed fingers over his pet’s body, his frown deepened; would his pet have died had he not come back? It certainly looked that way to him; the Prince could count his ribs clearly, and Pet had been so weak that it had given up fighting him.

The Prince didn’t want his pet to die, he realised. There was something fascinating about it, with the black hair so long and soft, like the ribbons of kelp that grew in the deep dark depths, and those pretty eyes the colour of the waves in the cool seas of the north. Like the eyes of the Sea People.

In fact, if he did not look at those strange white legs, he could almost pretend to himself that it was some beautiful youth of his own folk he held in his arms, fair of face and lithe of limb.

Was Pet sleeping? He didn’t know. The Sea People did not close their eyes to dream; they merely drifted, tails wrapped around a frond of kelp to anchor themselves as they turned their gaze inward; or else they lay upon the ocean floor in some sheltered spot for a time until they came back to themselves. They only closed their eyes if hurt, or ill.

Perhaps Pet was sick. No, he _knew_ Pet was very sick; he had given up fighting, and not because he had learned not to be afraid - but because perhaps he knew he was dying, and that there was no further point in wasting what strength he had.

As the Prince gently brushed feathery strands of the soft black hair away from his pet’s eyes, the creature stirred slightly, a slight crease forming upon its brow between those closed eyes as it turned its face away and made a faint sound. Its lips parted and moved, and the Prince cocked his head on one side at the curious sounds it made.

The Prince sang softly to his pet, and the creature made a quiet sighing sound, like the soft whisper of the waves upon the sand, and seemed to settle a little. The Prince smiled and wrapped his long strong arms around the unconscious creature as he studied its face.

He had saved it from drowning and though it had been ridiculously stubborn, his pet had eaten and was no longer starving. This business of keeping a pet wasn’t so bad! At least Pet hadn’t died _yet_.

He heard a whistle from the sea, and looked up. A dark head was bobbing sleekly in the waves a little way out, piercing blue eyes regarding him intently.

“Brother, what are you doing?”

The Prince smiled at his twin. “Look what I saved! Isn’t it pretty?”

“Hrrr. Where did you find it?” His brother began to crawl out of the sea, letting the waves wash him up onto the beach before dragging himself towards the Prince and the strange, dark-haired creature, his long blood-red hair trailing behind him.

“It fell off the land-dweller’s ship,” answered the Prince.

“I am hungry; share with me, my Prince?” asked his brother. The Prince frowned.

“It is not for eating, my brother!” he chided. “I’m keeping it. I found it. It’s mine.”

His brother sat up and frowned, uncomprehending. “Not for eating? But why else save it?” he asked. He trailed a clawed finger down the unconscious creature’s arm. “Tch, there’s naught of it but skin and bones,” he said, disapprovingly. “Not enough to make more than a mouthful anyway.” He poked the bony ribs.

“Not for eating,” the Prince repeated with a frown of his own. 

“It looks like it’s dying anyway,” shrugged his brother. “It would be a kindness to kill it. Let me kill it for you, my Prince. The land-dwellers are weak things - look, it would be so easy.” He leaned forward and wrapped his slender yet strong fingers around the creature’s throat and began to squeeze.

The creature’s breath hitched in its chest and it gasped like a fish out of water, its mouth opening as it struggled to breathe against the pressure of the merman’s strong hands.

“Stop it, you’re hurting it!” ordered the Prince, pulling his pet to himself and away from his brother’s hands.

“So? It’s only a land-dweller,” shrugged his brother. “Come, my Prince - we are going to hunt the tiger sharks. We have been waiting for you!”

“I don’t want to hunt tiger sharks today,” shrugged the Prince as he cradled his pet to him, stroking the long black hair and frowning at his brother.

“Suit yourself,” shrugged the other merman, then frowned at the Prince. “You shouldn’t play with your food. It’s not natural.”

The Prince whistled a rude retort, and his brother flicked sand at him before turning and crawling back towards the waves. “Our uncle will be displeased if he catches you keeping one of them alive!” he called back, and then with a slap of his tail upon the waves he was gone.

The Prince dusted sand off his pet, then gently trailed his clawed fingers through the dark hair again, crooning softly to the creature.

“You are mine, and you are not for eating. My uncle shall not have you,” he declared, though inwardly he felt a little thrill of guilt. The King of the Sea People would be furious if he knew the Prince had not only allowed a land-dweller to live, but had fed it and kept it alive. He did not think his brother would tell the King however. 

The creature was stirring, opening those pretty sea-green eyes in confusion. It stared up at him, and for a moment there was a look of trust as it smiled at him sleepily and made an interrogative sort of noise.

The next moment, its eyes widened and it managed to pull itself away from the Prince, rolling over onto all fours and then backing away, one hand held up as though to ward him off, the other clutching at its throat as it coughed and then looked alarmed.

“No, don’t be scared, you’re safe!” he trilled to it, but the creature merely blinked at him, uncomprehending. The Prince sighed. “Silly Pet. You still don’t understand, do you?”

The creature hesitated, staring at him. It swayed slightly, then slumped, as though too exhausted to be scared.

“Poor Pet,” crooned the Prince as he crawled towards the creature; it lifted its eyes to watch him crawling towards it. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

The creature opened its mouth and made more of the strange noises which passed fro land-dweller speech. After a moment, it managed to get to its feet and it staggered away in the direction of the freshwater pool. Frowning, the Prince followed at a distance, dragging himself along the sand with his strong arms until he understood - the creature was thirsty!

Maybe it was hungry as well? The Prince turned and dragged himself back to the waves; perhaps if Pet was able to reach the water by itself, it would also be able to eat too?

By the time he had returned to the beach with a juicy fish, the creature had returned to the shelter it had built on the beach. The Prince whistled to it, and it looked up, squinting against the sunlight that danced across the waves. Good, Pet had definitely learned its name! The Prince laid the fish on the flat rock by the water’s edge and whistled again.

The creature got up and came over, then crouched down by the stone and stared at the fish, then at the Prince. It frowned, then pursed its lips and whistled slowly, “Feeessss.”

“Yes, yes! Good Pet, that’s right, fish!”

The creature hesitantly smiled then licked its lips and tried again. “Fuuuud.”

The Prince let out a shrill whistle of approval and Pet clapped its hands over its ears and winced, making a sound of pain. Chastened, the Prince laid a hand on the creature’s arm until it looked at him, then he put his hand over his mouth and looked apologetic.

The creature swallowed hard, then nodded before touching the fish. “Fuuud,” it managed again, and the Prince nodded. 

“Food,” he said, encouragingly.

The creature picked up the fish, then closed its eyes and with a grimace, bit into it.

The Prince watched, a grin slowly spreading across his face as his pet ate the raw fish he’d brought for it. Under his watchful eyes, the creature gnawed steadily at the flesh of the fish until the head, tail, fins and bones were left. It looked a bit green and queasy, but dutifully chewed until it was done.

“Good Pet,” he crooned as the creature pressed its hand over its mouth and swallowed hard, closing its eyes for a minute. He patted its leg reassuringly; perhaps it was still feeling a little rough. It had been dying when he found it, after all, and he had no way of knowing how long it had been lying on the beach waiting for him. He hadn’t meant to leave it alone for so long - he just hadn’t realised how helpless it was before. 

He resolved to make sure to come and visit his pet every day from now on, as he watched the creature rise unsteadily to its feet and stumble back towards the shelter it had built for itself.


	5. Chapter 5

Raw fish was not Tybalt’s favourite diet, but it was remarkable how swiftly one could become acclimatised to something when one had no choice. It was also remarkable how swiftly one fell into a habit or routine.

It had taken a lot of nerve to steel himself to eat that first raw fish, but faced between that or starvation, the young man soon found that it was not so bad after all. And he had to admit there was something comforting in how the merman returned every day at about the same time to bring him a fish. 

The piercingly shrill whistle of the merman carried far, he soon found; wherever he was on the island, he could hear it. The merman would wait patiently by the rock with whatever catch of the day he had brought, smiling with that fierce, shark-like grin when he saw Tybalt emerging from the undergrowth to stride across the beach with a small, answering smile of his own.

He had no idea why the merman had spared his life; he had little expectation of ever learning the answer. But he was glad he wasn’t completely alone on this God-forsaken island, even if the only voice he ever heard was his own.

He fell into a routine swiftly. He woke each day with the sunrise, and would strip off his clothes to swim in the sea and take care of his morning ablutions, such as they were. Then he would walk inland to the freshwater pool and drink deep and wash out the salt from his hair before returning to the shore. He would then take a walk around the perimeter of the island to see what had washed ashore during the night. Usually it was nothing much more than perhaps the odd piece of driftwood or old rope, but he salvaged it all, sorting through everything. One night the sea was rough, and the next morning he found a trunk washed ashore. It was damaged, the wood cracked, but still inside he found an old, worn seaman’s knife, some clothing a couple of sizes too big, and a cracked mirror.

The knife was of steel, with a bone handle and a steel pommel. He had spent long hours patiently sharpening it with a stone until it had acquired a keen edge. With it and the mirror, he was able to shave the beard that had grown; and he had managed to find - after much careful hunting - a nodule of flint near his freshwater pool. He had shaved thin curls of tinder from driftwood, and then it had taken him some time to coax a tiny spark from the knife pommel and the flint - but eventually he succeeded in making a small fire.

It was remarkable what a difference having a fire made. He built a small firepit with rocks, and kept the fire fed with pieces of driftwood and whatever dried plant detritus he could find. And now he could cook the fish the merman brought to him.

The merman was very curious about the fire when he arrived the next morning; leaving the fish on the flat rock, he crawled up the beach, pulling himself towards the fire. He sat up, his tail curled about himself, and reached a clawed hand out curiously towards the flames.

“No, no!” exclaimed Tybalt, reaching out; too late however. The merman pulled back his hand with a piercing shriek and held it cradled to his chest, eyes wide with alarm and pain.

“Oh no, no, fire is hot!” said Tybalt. “Hot! Let me see your hand.” He reached out his hand towards the merman who whistled unhappily, staring at him. Tybalt held his hand out. “Please.”

The merman stared at him, uncomprehending. Tybalt sighed, then tried again. He held up his hand, and pointed to it. “Hand,” he said slowly and clearly, then held his hand out towards the merman. “Hand,” he repeated.

The merman trilled something that sounded like a quiet question, but then slowly held his injured hand out towards him. Tybalt took it carefully, turning it over so it lay palm uppermost in his hand. The fingers were reddened, as was the palm, but thankfully the burns didn’t look too bad; they hadn’t blistered, at least. He reached for a coconut shell of water, and gently poured cool water over the merman’s hand to soothe the burns. 

The merman whistled appreciatively, then made the whistling sound that Tybalt had come to realise was the merman’s name for him. Tybalt smiled, and tapped his chest. “Tybalt,” he said.

The merman stared at him, then parted its lips and managed to make a sound that was something like “Teeee....ba?”

“Almost!” smiled Tybalt. “Try again?” He tapped his chest again. “Tybalt?”

“Teeee....ballllt?” the merman managed.

“Yes, that’s right! Tybalt!” encouraged Tybalt with a smile.

“Tybalt,” repeated the merman, and he lifted his uninjured hand and tapped Tybalt’s chest. “Tybalt,” he repeated.

It felt strange to his name coming from the lips of one of the Sea People. Tybalt wondered what Juliette would have thought of that. Probably been amused, he guessed.

He tapped his own chest again and said, “Tybalt,” then he leaned forward and tapped the merman’s chest and asked, “You?”

The merman frowned and echoed, “oooooo?”

Tybalt repeated it, tapping his own chest as he said his name again, then tapped the merman’s chest and tilted his head on one side. He saw the blue eyes suddenly widen, and the merman leaned forward to tap his chest.

“Tybalt!” the merman exclaimed, then tapped its own chest and trilled something Tybalt couldn’t catch. He tilted his head on one side and frowned, not understanding. The merman also frowned, then repeated the sound, slower. Tybalt strained to catch what it was saying.

“Merrrr...cuoooo...toh...toh....” He shook his head; he couldn’t catch it all. But the merman smiled and nodded.

“Mrrrc’teeeohhhh,” he trilled.

“Mer....cutio,” said Niccolo, and the merman made a funny clicking, “kekekekek!” sound. It took Tybalt a moment to realise the creature was laughing. He grinned back, and then tapped his own chest again. “Tybalt,” he said firmly, then tapped the merman’s chest. “Mercutio,” he said.

The merman nodded, then tapped his chest. “Teeeebalt,” it repeated, then tapped its own chest. “Mer _cuuuu_ tio.”

Tybalt sat back and smiled. He rose to his feet and went and fetched the fish the merman - _Mercutio_ , he reminded himself - had brought him, and carried it back to the fire. He tapped it with a forefinger.

“Fish,” he said. 

Mercutio frowned at it and prodded it, making the whistling sound that Tybalt had worked out meant fish, and he whistled it to Mercutio. The merman nodded with a smile, and Tybalt tapped the fish again and repeated it. “Fish.”

“Fffff....fffsssss...ffffeeeeessss?” Mercutio managed. Tybalt nodded with a grin.

He almost couldn’t believe it. The merman and he were actually communicating. Hesitantly, and clumsily - but they were slowly communicating. They had a name for each other, and they were talking.

He drew the sharp knife from the makeshift sheath he’d woven from palm fronds, and swiftly gutted and prepared the fish. He wrapped it up in more palm fronds, and set it in the coals at the edge of the fire. Mercutio stared at the fish, then at Tybalt, clearly confused.

“Trust me, this will taste so much better this way,” he grinned as he set some of the curved green plantain fruits he’d gathered earlier into the embers around the fish as well, then took one of the strange spiky fruits and put it into the glowing coals by the fire also. He wasn’t sure what cooking the fruits would do, but he remembered how the spiky fruit had tasted like an uncooked potato; perhaps cooking it would render it more edible, and likewise the green curved fruits.

Mercutio was watching him, curious; occasionally he would trill what sounded like a question, and Tybalt would comment aloud.

As he sat back after checking how the baking fish was coming along, Mercutio crawled closer to him, studying his face intently. Tybalt glanced at him, wondering what had the merman so fascinated; and then Mercutio reached up and grasped his chin, forcing Tybalt to turn his face towards the merman. “Hey, what-!” he exclaimed, then held still as Mercutio ran a clawed finger carefully along his smooth jaw, and made a low sound, halfway between a trill and a purr, ending on an interrogative note as the impossibly blue eyes flicked from his jaw to his eyes.

“Oh, the beard?” said Tybalt slowly, finally realising what had the merman so curious. “Yes, I shaved it off. Did it confuse you?” He smiled as he pulled back a little out of Mercutio’s grasp and ran a hand over his own jaw. “The beard was itchy.”

The merman made another rumbling purr sound and touched his bare cheek, curious, then leaned back with his head tilted on one side. 

“Ah, you don’t understand me, do you? Never mind,” shrugged Tybalt. He turned and poked the fish with a stick and nodded in satisfaction; it was done. He carefully tugged the baked fish in its singed palm-frond basket out of the coals and onto a smooth flat stone to cool, then speared the spiky fruit with his knife and carefully sliced it open. Steam escaped from the fruit as it split open easily to reveal the white, fluffy interior. It reminded him of freshly-baked bread, slightly sweet and tempting. He cut it into quarters and set them aside on the stone next to the fish to cool a little.

Mercutio was staring at the cooked fish, clearly very curious. He started to reach towards it, until Tybalt warned him off. “No, hot!”

“Hottt,” echoed Mercutio, and stared down at the fingers he had burned in the fire earlier before curling his injured hand to his chest protectively. 

Well, it seemed the merman had certainly learned _that_ word. Tybalt shot him a look, then turned to cautiously fish the curved plantain fruits out of the embers. Their skins were blackened, and the fruit seemed rather softer and squishier inside now, a creamy yellow inside and smelling a little like roasted potato.

Mercutio was regarding the food with intent curiosity, his nose twitching at the savoury smells. Tybalt turned to the fish and scraped a portion of the soft, white flesh onto a broad lead from the curved fruits, then the cooked pulp of one of the spiky fruits, and one of the curved plantain fruits sliced open lengthways, and then began to eat.

Mercutio regarded him with hs head tilted a little on one side; as Tybalt glanced up at him, the merman trilled a question.

“You want to try a bit?” asked Tybalt. He held out the leaf, and Mercutio leaned over then carefully pinched a morsel of the cooked fish with his clawed fingers. He sniffed it cautiously, then hesitantly put it in his mouth and chewed - dubiously at first, then slowly with a little more enthusiasm. Then he tried a little of the bread-like fruit followed by the starchy curved fruits.

The merman seemed to quite like the slightly sweet taste of the breadfruit; Tybalt gave him one of the quarters of the grapefruit-sized fruit and the merman ate it with every sign of enjoyment. He seemed very dubious and uncertain about the cooked fish, and of the curved plantain fruits he showed no sign of interest whatsoever.

To Tybalt, the meal was a veritable feast after so long eating only raw fish; he tucked in happily, and they ate companionably - Mercutio with his piece of breadfruit, Tybalt with his baked fish. When it was done, Tybalt felt more full and replete than he had that last morning aboard the _Painted Lady_ before the storm, the last time he had eaten a proper cooked meal. This was paltry fare compared to what he’d been used to, but right now it tasted heavenly.

Tybalt sat back with a pleased sigh, his hunger finally actually sated for once, and smiled at Mercutio. 

The merman had finished his breadfruit and was licking his fingers clean almost fastidiously. He glanced up, aware of Tybalt’s stare, then slowly returned the seaman’s stare toothily. Tybalt realised he didn’t feel quite so afraid of those wicked teeth any more; it was obvious the merman meant him no harm. 

“Good?” said Tybalt, rubbing his stomach and smiling. Mercutio seemed to ponder this for a moment.

“Ssss... Tybalt. Good,” the merman slowly nodded, rubbing its own stomach.

The merman stayed awhile, until the hot sun had risen high overhead and the heat was becoming too strong for the water-dwelling creature. With a flip of his tail flukes, Mercutio crawled back into the sea, then with a final whistle of farewell he disappeared below the waves.

Tybalt tossed the remnants of his meal - the husks and peel of the fruits and the skin and bones of the fish - onto his fire, stoking it up a bit, before he took a drink of coconut milk then stretched out in the shade of the tree to nap away the heat of the midday sun.

He dreamed of Juliette, there on that deserted island, hundreds of miles away from home.


	6. Chapter 6

The Prince found his pet quite a curious creature indeed. He supposed he should have known it would learn to make the bright light that the land-dwellers were so fond of eventually, but he would never have guessed that the bright light could also cause hurt like that. He had only ever seen it from a distance, never close up; it was quite the revelation to him that it radiated heat. And it worked magic on food; it changed the flavour and texture of fish, for a start. 

He wasn’t sure yet if he liked this different way of eating fish, but it seemed Pet - no, Tybalt, he knew that much now, though still he referred to the land-dweller as Pet and Tybalt still responded to the whistle - much preferred to eat it this way. And he ate the vegetation that had been changed by the fire as well! The Prince wasn’t too impressed with the curved things, but he did like the fluffy white stuff.

Tybalt chose to always eat fish cooked by the fire from then on. It became a new part of their daily routine; the Prince would bring fish, and Tybalt would cook it, together with the spiky round fruits and the curved ones. The Prince had to admit that the change in his diet did seem to suit the land-dweller; he looked less gaunt, more healthy, and seemed to have more energy. He roamed over his island more, dragging the flotsam that washed up on the beach into a pile and sorting through it; he added bits to his shelter, making it more sturdy.

The Prince took to visiting Tybalt more and more often, watching distantly from the sea when he thought Tybalt was unaware of his presence. He followed him around the edge of the island, head low in the waves.

When he thought himself alone, sometimes Tybalt sang to himself. His voice wasn’t as melodious as those of the Sea People, but it was quite charming in its own rough way. The Prince wished he could sing to Tybalt, but he knew only too well the effect the voices of the Sea People had upon the land-dwellers, and he didn’t wish to hurt his pet.

Tybalt couldn’t pronounce the Prince’s name. That hadn’t surprised the Prince; he sort of liked the abbreviated version they had settled on between them. _Mercutio_. Only his brother had ever had a secret nickname for him, much as he had had for his brother; but once they had attained the age of adulthood amongst their people, secret pet names were to be set aside. It felt... _nice_ to have a pet name again.

“You spend too much time with your pet, my brother,” his brother told him one day as they hunted by the reef. 

“Hush!” said the Prince sharply, his eyes darting about, wary of any overhearing them.

“When will you tire of it?” continued his brother, though his trills became quieter.

“He has a name,” said the Prince. His brother halted and trod water, staring at him darkly.

“This goes too far, my Prince,” he said sombrely. “What will our Uncle say when he learns? A _land-dweller_ , Mrrr’ckckckuuu’tyohhh! Have you forgotten that it was land-dwellers who slew our mother, our father? The King wears our mother’s teeth about his neck!”

The use of the diminutive of his name did not escape the Prince’s notice. Somehow “Mercutio” seemed less harsh - at least, it did not seem so when spoken by Tybalt.

“I have not forgotten,” answered the Prince. “But he does not know, and how would he find out? From _you?_ ” He eyed his brother sharply. “Would you betray me, my brother?”

“Never,” the other merman declared. “But Mrr’ck’tyoh, you are absent so much now, and others will notice. Sooner or later, our Uncle will grow curious.”

“But not yet!” exclaimed the Prince. “Until that time, leave me be - it is an innocent enough diversion, after all.”

“Is it?” said his brother darkly. “Truly? Mrr’ck’tyoh, you grow soft-hearted towards your enemy.”

“What threat is one land-dweller to me?” laughed the Prince. “Now, come - there are yellowfin to hunt!”

He would have liked to bring one of the big fish back to Tybalt afterwards, but there would have been far too much for him to manage alone or even with the Prince to help him devour it; and it would have occasioned too many questions had he slipped away early from the feast with a smaller portion for his pet. 

The Sea People did not, as a rule, keep pets. They were a nomadic people, roaming about the ocean; they kept no dwellings but the deep sea caves, and though they were benevolent towards the seals and sealions, dolphins and porpoises that were often drawn to their congregation, they rarely made pets of them. To make a pet of their enemy would not merely have been unheard of but unthinkable; and his brother was right. Had their Uncle known, his wrath would have been a terrible thing to behold. That he was the Prince would not have saved him; it would have made his perceived betrayal only all the more worse.

Perhaps his brother was right; perhaps he had let this go on too long. That evening, as they gathered in the deeping caves, lit by phosphorescent sea stars and plankton, the Prince stared at the necklace of his mother’s teeth about his Uncle’s neck for a long time.

The King noticed his gaze, and grinned unpleasantly. “Look you well, nephew of mine!” the King said. “Look well upon what the land-dwellers wrought upon your flesh and blood and mine. There can never be peace between land-dwellers and the Sea People; the only peace they know is death - and that is what we shall give to them! And soon; aye, soon.”

“Is there a storm coming, Uncle?” asked the Prince.

“There are always storms coming, my nephew,” replied the King enigmatically. “This is the season of storms, and always there is some land-dweller foolish enough to venture too far from their little stone-walled ports. Have patience, my nephew; we will dine on their flesh soon enough!”

The Prince did not visit Tybalt the next day. He knew the land-dweller would not starve with the breadfruit and the curved food to eat, and he had much to think on.

Perhaps his brother was right. Perhaps it had gone on long enough. The longer he kept the land-dweller, the greater the risk. It had been enjoyable, keeping him as a pet, but the danger of his uncle discovering him grew, the longer this went on.

Maybe he should call his brother, go sing to Tybalt from the beach; let him drown in the waves and then devour him and let no-one be the wiser. It would be swift and certain. 

But he realised he did not wish for Tybalt’s life to end that way. He had done nothing wrong, after all. He had raised no hand to any of the Sea People, and alone on his island he was harmless. No land-dweller’s ships ever came near the island; it was too small to interest them. There was no risk that his pet would be discovered by others of his kind. He could live out his life there and never see another of his people - and what threat, after all, was one mortal to him?

Maybe he would go to the island alone at night, whilst Tybalt was sleeping, and wrap his hands around that long pale throat and then squeeze until the life left his body, just as his brother had tried to do. It would not be so very hard, after all; though Tybalt had gained in strength and health, still the Prince knew he was far stronger; he could choke the life out of him before Tybalt ever awoke. It would not take long; a brief struggle and then stillness. Should the land-dweller awaken, his struggle would be very brief - a moment’s fear, and then gone.

No, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t hurt Tybalt that way, he realised.

He would go and sing to him, he decided. He would let Tybalt hear his voice, call him to the waves, and then gently lay him down in his arms and hold him as he drowned. Yes, that would be for the best. He could not simply swim away and never return; his brother knew where the land-dweller lived, and he didn’t want Tybalt to slowly starve to death should the trees on his island no longer yield fruit for him.

Yes, he would gently drown Tybalt in the waves, take him down and let him die in his arms. It would sadden the Prince terribly, but it was much the kindest death. He was growing quite fond of his pet after all.

Once having made up his mind, there was nothing for it but to put thought into action. He swam swiftly for the island, his strong flukes driving him on through the water until he reached the island as the sun was rising.

He had never visited Tybalt this early in the morning before; as he glided through the early morning waves of the tide, he was surprised to realise the land-dweller was already awake and moving around. He watched as Tybalt strode slowly down onto the beach, stripping off his shirt and pants and leaving them upon the sand; the Prince stared, fascinated. He had never seen a land-dweller naked before.

As he watched, Tybalt tugged the bit of twine from his hair that he customarily kept it tied back with, and he shook it loose, dropping the twine onto his shirt before shaking the long black tresses out. Then he strode into the sea, walking out until the waves lapped against his skin, tanned a dark olive by all this time spent living outdoors in the bright sunshine; and he suddenly dived into the water.

The Prince surged after him, alarmed, then checked his motion when Tybalt’s head appeared above the waves, farther out; the land-dweller tossed his long jet-black hair back out of his face, then pulled himself on through the waves with strong, practiced strokes of his arms.

The Prince slipped beneath the waves, skimming along just below the surface as he kept pace with the dark-haired man; and as Tybalt suddenly dove down beneath the waves himself, his long black hair streaming out behind him, the merman was reminded of how he had mistaken the land-dweller for one of his own people when first he’d laid eyes on him. Tybalt moved through the water with a grace that the Prince would never have imagined, never guessed at for one not born to the sea. If he half-closed his eyes, he could almost fancy the dark-haired man to be one of his own people. He seemed at home there, the gawkiness of his movements on land shucked off with those thin garments in favour of an ease and comfort that spoke of a life spent in or near the sea; and not for the first time, the Prince found himself curious as to the life of his pet before he had been cast aside to die by the others of his kind.

Was this, then, why the other land-dwellers had turned on Tybalt? Was he too much like the Sea People, with his eyes the hue of the northern oceans, his hair like the long dark kelp of the deep reaches, his long lithe limbs that pulled him through the water smoothly? Did they think him too akin to the merfolk they hated and feared so? 

Tybalt turned and pulled himself back to the surface, never dreaming that the merman lingered so close nearby; he turned and struck out for the shore once more, and the Prince followed at a distance.

He watched as Tybalt pulled himself out of the water, striding up the beach as he wrung the seawater out of his hair and continuing inland towards the freshwater pool. He leaned upon the flat stone at the water’s edge and pondered what he’d seen; and he realised then that he could not kill the man.

He hid himself again as Tybalt came striding back from the pool to snatch up his clothes and the hair tie. He dressed with unhurried grace, unaware of the watchful eyes upon him, and then tied back his damp hair before he fetched the sharp shiny tool he kept at his waist nearly all the time; and then he set off on his morning walk around the perimeter of the island to see what the night tides had thrown up upon the shore the night before.

As they approached the beach and Tybalt’s shelter, the Prince turned and swam swiftly away to fish for their breakfast, thinking hard.

He could not kill Tybalt. He realised he had come to enjoy his company too much to see it end. He would simply have to be more careful in future and make sure that no-one else found out about the land-dweller.


	7. Chapter 7

Tybalt had begun to feel the distinct sense of eyes upon him during his morning swims of late; he found it hard to shake the sensation as he made the usual circuits of the island as the sun slowly rose higher each day. Today was no different; he could feel the skin between his shoulder blades itching as he sorted over a tangled mess of cords. The rope was too worn and rotting to be of much use, but it would serve as fuel for his fire; he gathered it up and slung it over his shoulder as he headed back to the beach.

What he really wanted was a bit of fishing net or twine; with that, he could have fished for himself and not been so reliant upon Mercutio. Not that he _minded_ sharing his breakfasts with the merman, but it would have been nice to surprise _him_ with breakfast for once. And then, also, Tybalt had never liked being reliant upon others; he had long valued his independence, even before the death of his father. If something happened to Mercutio, he didn’t much fancy a diet of breadfruit until some passing ship finally took pity upon him and picked him up. Though there were shellfish around the island, and crabs; and on those rare occasions when the merman did not put in his customary appearance, Tybalt certainly could not be said to starve. 

Not that he had seen any ships from his lonely island; he seemed to be far off the regular shipping lanes, and the winter storms were now making the ocean passage hazardous around the Cape. His had been one of the last ships foolhardy enough to risk it, and there would likely be no more until the spring.

He’d been keeping track of time by scraping marks on the trunk of a palm-tree near the pool, and he knew he’d been on this island for over a month now, nearly two; whilst the silence and solitude of the island had been quite restful at first, the loneliness was beginning to tell on him. Though Tybalt had always been content with his own company and preferred quiet, even he need the company of his fellow man on occasion - and it was one thing to be alone by choice when one knew they could seek out the companionship of others if they wished it, and quite another to be utterly bereft of company and several hundred miles from any other living man, to the best of his knowledge.

He looked forward to the visits of the merman; for an hour or two, he was no longer alone. He would admit that he had even come to crave those visits.

He had tried to teach Mercutio how to speak his language, but the merman seemed slow to get the hang of it. Tybalt was faring little better at learning the language of the Sea People, it must be said.

He was glad he’d built his shelter more sturdily; his little island had been hit several times by storms. He’d been careful to build the hut well above the detritus line of the beach, and the four tree trunks provided a strong, steadfast frame that helped anchor the wooden walls in place, and tight-woven palm fronds laced into mats and layered over each other before being stoutly lashed down with oddments of rope he’d found had made for a good, waterproof roof. He’d lashed wood together in a frame to make a bed and layered it deep with palm fronds. A piece of canvas washed up onto the beach one night had made a decent top sheet and blanket once he’d slit it in half.

More woven palm-fronds made baskets for food, cups for water, mats for sitting on. From the hairy husks of coconuts he was able to twist and rub together hair into rough fibre for cordage.

He lived comfortably enough, given his circumstances, but he was desperately lonely. Each day, when he went to the pool after his morning swim, he would go to the tallest tree on the island and climb to the very top and stare hard all around the horizon in desperate hopes of a ship until his eyes ached; but no matter how he stared, all he saw was the sunlight glinting off the waves. He was alone out here. 

He heard a whistle from the beach, and climbed swiftly back down to the ground then set off back towards the beach, a smile spreading across his face. Mercutio had not come the previous day, and Tybalt had missed the merman’s presence.

He gathered more of the breadfruit and the curved green fruits as he headed towards the beach; Mercutio was indifferent to the green plantain fruit but he seemed quite fond of the breadfruit. The merman was waiting by the flat stone when Tybalt emerged onto the beach; he set his fruits down around the fire pit to start roasting, then strode down onto the warm white sands. 

Mercutio whistled greetings to him as Tybalt crouched down to see what the merman had brought him. It was a couple of large flatfish of some kind that he’d not seen before. Mercutio looked at him expectantly.

“I’ve never seen fish like these before,” said Tybalt slowly.

“Is fish. Is good,” said Mercutio, nodding. Tybalt replied with the whistled trills he’d learned for _food_ , _fish_ and _good_ , and Mercutio nodded again, his sharp toothy grin spreading.

“Let’s get breakfast started then,” grinned Tybalt.

As ever, Mercutio had brought two of the fish so Tybalt could cook his and Mercutio could have his own one raw, as he preferred. Tybalt wrapped his in plantain leaves; he’d learned quite early on they worked far better for roasting his fish in than woven palm-fronds. They remained more flexible and imparted a pleasing flavour to the fish.

Mercutio chirped and trilled comments as Tybalt worked; he found himself explaining what he was doing, as ever, though he no longer held much hopes of teaching the merman much more of human speech than Mercutio had learned thus far. Tybalt was, if anything, having more luck learning the merman’s tongue. Maybe Mercutio just didn’t have the vocal cords for human language; Tybalt had heard it said that if a human child did not learn speech by five years of age, they never would. He did not know how true this was; he was, after all, only the unwanted nephew of a nobleman and a sea captain, and what need had he had to know such things? Yet now he wished he’d read more and was more widely-learned. But if it were true, then likely the merman would never learn the speech of men.

But the merman’s own tongue - ah, perhaps in time Tybalt might learn that? He’d always been a swift learner at any task he turned his hand to, and languages had come swiftly to him in his travels. In addition to his own native Italian, he’d picked up more than a little Portuguese and French - even a little of the Arabic tongue here and there. Why should he not also learn to whistle like the sirens of the sea? Already Tybalt fancied he likely understood more of the merman’s tongue than perhaps Mercutio realised; the merman was teasing him about how he must fancy the taste of burnt ashes, for how he always put everything he ate into the fire first.

“ _Not everything - no burnt coconuts!_ ” Tybalt teased the merman back. Mercutio’s eyes widened, and then he laughed.

“ _The land-dweller makes a joke!_ ” he exclaimed. “ _I should be careful - you know more of my tongue than I thought!_ ”

“ _Can’t speak it as well as I understand though,_ ” Tybalt admitted as he prodded the fish and then the breadfruits. All looked done and ready to eat; he cut the breadfruits into quarters and set out two on one of the woven palm-frond mats for Mercutio, then served up his own breakfast and for a little while there was no talking from either man as they turned their attention to their food. 

Once they’d finished and the fruit peels, fish skins and bones were tossed upon the fire, Tybalt took out a piece of driftwood he’d been whittling and continued to work at it as he and Mercutio talked, each in their own tongue. Mercutio whistled and trilled of the Sea People, describing the deep sea kelp groves, whilst Tybalt in turn spoke quietly of Venice, the city of his birth.

The sea breeze dropped, and the temperature steadily rose. Tybalt laid aside the wooden spoon he was carving and stared at the distant storm clouds slowly building far away on the horizon.

“A bad blow,” he said quietly. Mercutio whistled soft agreement; the human wondered whether the bad winter storms affected the Sea People as much as they did his own people at sea. 

“ _Too hot_ ,” complained Mercutio suddenly. “ _I will roast like your breakfast if we stay here._ ” He turned and eyed Tybalt with a sudden grin. “ _Come swim with me._ ”

Tybalt stared at him. It was true that he swam every morning before Mercutio arrived - but the thought of stripping off naked in front of the merman had him suddenly feeling shy and bashful. And yet it was true that the heat was mounting by degrees as they sat there, and a swim to cool off before he retreated to the shelter of his hut did seem very tempting.

He rose to his feet as Mercutio began to head down the beach, and he stripped off his shirt then paused, his hands upon the waistband of his pants.

Mercutio whistled to him impatiently from the sea. 

“ _Come on, why are you waiting?_ ”

Why indeed? Tybalt found he was blushing. But after all, what was there to be embarrassed about? At sea aboard his own ship he would think nothing of stripping off naked to wash; when one had spent months at sea with two score men, one learned not to be too precious about such things. There was nothing to be ashamed of in the naked human form. And why be embarrassed in front of someone who wasn’t even human?

He stripped off the pants swiftly, then sprinted down the beach and dove smoothly into the sea, pulling himself through the cool clear waters with steady, practiced strokes, aware of the merman keeping pace with him beneath the water, Mercutio’s eyes regarding him thoughtfully as they swam. Tybalt could feel himself blushing again, certain that the merman must think him terribly clumsy.

He drew a deep breath and dove down under the water, and Mercutio’s eyes widened as the merman grinned delightedly. He darted around Tybalt and whistled; the sound carried clearly underwater. “ _Look at you! You could almost be one of my people!_ ” he trilled, and Tybalt grinned. He knew he couldn’t whistle underwater - he hadn’t the vocal chords for it; Mercutio sang as the dolphins and whales did, and no mere human could ever emulate them underwater.

He dove down, Mercutio twisting and following him down with strong strokes of his broad grey flukes that drove him on more powerfully than Tybalt’s legs. As the human turned to glance up at the sun shimmering through the almost mirror-like surface of the sea, he felt the touch of cool hands upon his back and then Mercutio’s arms were twining about him from behind, the merman’s body pressed against his back, the merman resting his head upon Tybalt’s shoulder.

“ _I wish you were one of my people,_ ” Mercutio trilled softly and wistfully.

He seemed to sense when Tybalt needed air; he surged towards the surface with Tybalt in his arms. They emerged into the air and Tybalt took a deep breath. He could feel Mercutio’s arms loosen slightly, and he turned within the merman’s embrace to find Mercutio regarding him with an almost wistful expression.

“Mercutio?” he said quietly.

Mercutio leaned forward, tilting his head a little, half-closing his eyes. “ _I... Tybalt, I...._ ”

Tybalt leaned forward and on impulse, brushed his lips against those of Mercutio in a soft, gentle kiss. Mercutio’s eyes flew open, startled, but he did not pull away. Emboldened, Tybalt swiped his tongue lightly across Mercutio’s bottom lip, and the merman’s lips parted. Gently, Tybalt explored his mouth with tongue and lips, deepening the kiss as he felt Mercutio slowly stroke a hand up his spine then cradle the back of his head with his hand, careful of the claws tipping his fingers as he slid them into the dark hair.

They kissed until Tybalt had to pull away a little, light-headed for lack of air, and he found Mercutio was regarding him with a stunned expression.

_What am I doing??_ Tybalt stared at Mercutio, his stunned expression mirroring that of the merman.

They let go of each other simultaneously. Mercutio stared at Tybalt for a moment longer, that incredulous, stunned expression still upon his face; and then with a splash of his grey tail he was gone, diving deep beneath the water.

Tybalt turned and struck out for the beach with strong, sure strokes. He pulled himself up out of the water and walked slowly towards his shelter, gathering his clothes as he went, lost in thought.

The merman’s skin was cool, but his lips had been warm.


End file.
